


Well Acquainted With The Touch Of The Velvet Hand

by anything_thats_rock_and_roll



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blowjobs, Bondage, Bottom John, Dildos, M/M, Name Calling, Overstimulation, Power Play, Rimming, Top Paul, Top Yoko, handjobs, poor communication, they work it out in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anything_thats_rock_and_roll/pseuds/anything_thats_rock_and_roll
Summary: “More.” The word echoes in Paul’s head, until the multiplicity of it starts ringing like a hot mic. “How can you want more?”---Paul and John have a good thing going, until John wants more than he can explain (and far more than Paul can give at that moment). Smut (eventually) ensues.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Well Acquainted With The Touch Of The Velvet Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is ... quite different than anything I've written before but I'm actually pretty happy with how it turned out. I'd been meaning to write some BDSM McLennon that explored the differences in their personalities and communication styles, but this turned out WAY smuttier than planned. An obvious but necessary disclaimer: PLEASE don't engage in any kind of BDSM play without talking to your partner extensively. Just because John and Paul are making poor decisions doesn't mean you should too. Title from Happiness Is A Warm Gun.

** 1963-ish **

The first time John kisses him, it’s in the drafty alley behind the Cavern Club, pressed hard against the cold bricks. John tastes like cheap beer and stale cigarettes, but the cliché is lost on Paul as the rough pressure of John’s lips overwhelms his senses. There was really nothing to do, he rationalized later, but kiss back. There was no arguing with John when he’d got an idea in his head.

Sometimes, when he’s alone, it worries Paul. The way his eyes can’t help but trace John’s strong figure. The burning eye contact while every other lad in the room wanks with eyes trained carefully on the floor. The groping and snogging in every empty dressing room, every dark corner. It’s getting harder and harder to describe their relationship as anything but “queer.”

But then John comes ‘round, and Paul forgets to worry. Every ounce of his attention is filled with _JohnJohnJohn_ and there’s no room for calumnious thoughts. They’re too busy taking on the world together: hours and hours spent sitting opposite, perfectly mirroring one another as they stitch together chords and melodies, scribbling on a weary legal pad between them. The real world fades, replaced wholly by their entwined journey to the toppermost of the poppermost.

Everything takes off so fast after that, sold out shows and EMI studios, trading Pete for Ringo, the Ed Sullivan show, Beatlemania. It becomes just one more unbelievable facet of Paul McCartney’s unbelievable life: oh yes, they’re a crack songwriting team, and they’re at the top of the charts every week, and why yes of course they’re shagging.

When the door bursts open in a dressing room in Washington DC, Paul’s heart stutters to a halt until Ringo crows, “Aha! 20 quid, cough up Georgie!”

“Bugger!” George calls back. “Well enough. Don’t mind losin’ the bet rather’n walkin’ in on those randy fuckers.”

And, somehow, the world doesn’t end. They tour the globe, and share hotel rooms, and make records (and movies now!) and he gets to kiss John too. Even the occasional incisive joke from the others only reminds Paul that they’ve stuck around, that they don’t mind the fact that half the band are right queers. Everything seems too good to be true, but to Paul it seems far too perfect to end.

**February 1968, India**

“More.” The word echoes in Paul’s head, until the multiplicity of it starts ringing like a hot mic. “How can you want _more_?”

Paul’s life has been running in a constant state of TOO MUCH as of late. Ever since Brian died, he’s been paddling like a goose below the surface just to keep his head above the waves. The Mystery Tour, the new record, managing Apple…

“Dunno, s’ppose I must be defective then.” John’s lips twist into an ugly sneer. He sits down on the low, lumpy mattress, rumpling the linen Paul had carefully made that morning.

Paul scrubs a hand over his face. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

The heat presses in against him, oppressive. Beads of sweat roll down his spine, dampening the loose white fabric of his tunic. Paul struggles to draw breath, overwhelmed by the onslaught against his senses. He needs to _think._

“What are you saying?” he asks, voice as even as he can make it.

“There’s something missing. Inside me, like,” he adds, as Paul opens his mouth to interrupt. “Jus’… there’s too much space inside me head. Like me skin’s too loose. Only I thought coming here, to India, might fix me. Like George. But I’m rubbish at this meditation lark. I just fly away. An’ being stuck here with you. An’ the birds around. An’ then there’s me, a real nowhere man, all turned around in me own fucking nowhere land. S’driving me mad.”

Somewhere around John’s third unmoored metaphor, Paul’s attention deserts him. The sun is slipping below the horizon, spears of contumacious light piercing his eyes. A stubborn pain pulses behind his brow. He’s tired.

“And I’m supposed to fix this?”

“You could,” John insists. Paul lets out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Are you serious right now? You do know we’re not _actually_ bigger than Jesus, right? I can’t, in fact, fix everything in the _entire_ universe just by sheer force of will.”

“Are you sure? I thought you hadn’t noticed.” John’s voice has slanted into something more cutting. “You do seem to think that the whole world falls under your control.”

“What happened to us, Johnny?” All at once, the only thing Paul feels is sad. “What happened to when it was _good_? The toppermost of the poppermost? Lennon-McCartney?”

“It’s. Not. Enough,” John grits out.

He steps forward, pushing into Paul’s space. Paul has just enough time to wonder whether John is going to kiss him before John’s hands make contact with his chest. Paul stumbles backward a few steps, surprised by the force of the attack.

“What the hell?” Paul’s blood boils and he pins John with a stare, ready to unleash his ire. But when he meets John’s eyes, Paul is surprised to find they’re not clouded with familiar anger. Rather, they’re the eyes of a gambler: light brown tinged with cutting calculation and more than a hint of mania.

And then it hits him. John wants to know if he’ll push back. It’s like chess and a game of chicken all at once, and John cut the brakes a long time ago. He’ll burn the room around them just to push Paul past his limit.

Wordlessly, Paul starts for the door. If John is looking for the limit, he’s found it.

“Where are you going?” John asks, dumbfounded.

“’M going. I’ll find somewhere else to bunk tonight. Let Jane know for me, will ye?” Paul says shortly. He knows he should feel bad, invoking Jane’s name just for the spite of it, but he can’t bring himself to care. There’s a beat of silence, as if the night is holding its breath.

“Fine!” John shouts behind him. “I always knew you’d walk out on me when it counted. You’re no different than anyone else.” Paul keeps walking. He’s heard this all before, and will doubtlessly hear it all again.

“If you’re not up to the task,” John says scathingly, “I’ll find myself someone who is.”

** Late 1968-ish, Kenwood  **

Paul knocks impatiently at the heavy door of Kenwood, slightly out of breath after bounding up the steps. He rocks back and forth on his heels, clutching his well-worn writing notebook as he waits for the door to open. He can’t decide whether it feels strange or familiar to be back, ready to write with John just like the old days.

His head snaps up at the sound of approaching footsteps, but faint disappointment settles in his gut when the door opens to reveal John’s housekeeper rather than the man himself. He brushes past her, mumbling a hurried greeting from halfway up the stairs.

“John!” he calls out, his hand already on the doorknob of John’s music room. “You’ve got to hear the song I’ve started!”

When Paul opens the door, there are no more words, because there’s no more air. The notebook slides out of Paul’s hand and drops with a thud he doesn’t hear.

The scene before him is too bizarre to be made up. John is hanging from the ceiling, trussed up in an intricate web of deep red rope. His limbs stretch upwards behind him, his back arched. Yoko stands behind him, sharp leather boots gifting her height, sliding a long black dildo relentlessly in and out of him. She meets Paul’s eyes unflinchingly, as if daring him to assume that _she_ should feel embarrassed.

In stark contrast to Yoko’s composure, John looks entirely undone. His hair hangs lank around his face, his skin flushed in blotchy patches. Deep grooves trace his body, left by the ropes. Paul can’t ignore the way his cock bobs towards his belly, leaking and swollen and _needy_.

“Paul.” John’s unfocused, tear-filled eyes land on Paul. At that moment, Yoko twists the dildo roughly and John comes, shaking and spilling onto an already-sizeable white splatter on the carpet below.

Paul turns and runs. There’s no other way to respond to what he’s just seen.

Time passes, and Paul finds himself dwelling on the scene more and more often. He can’t deny that it becomes a frequent feature behind his eyelids as he gets off. He thinks about India, and the signs he should have seen before.

Eventually, in his most honest moments, Paul can admit to himself that the idea doesn’t horrify him as much as it should. His initial revulsion ebbs away, leaving him with an uncomfortable awareness that, had he been more open-minded or quicker on the uptake, _he_ could be the one standing above and behind and on top of John.

** 1969-ish, Abbey Road Studios  **

“I’m off,” George says shortly, sending a dark look in John’s direction. Ringo follows him out silently. In the old days, he might have shot Paul a sympathetic look over his shoulder, but the old days are long, long gone by this point. When George Martin emerges from the control room saying something about grabbing a bite of lunch, the rest of the engineers all but flee.

Paul watches the scene with the tired eyes of someone who has watched this play out too many times before. He turns to John, trying to gauge which incarnation he’ll have to deal with today, but John hasn’t moved. He’s staring fixedly at the door the others left through, a mulish set to his jaw.

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Paul asks. John gives no indication of having heard him.

“John. Answer me.” There’s something hard in Paul’s voice that surprises even him. It’s clearly a command, but somehow it feels natural on his tongue.

John’s eyes flick toward him, appraising, but his words are mocking. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Paul takes a chance. He steps forward, pushing into John’s space. He pauses, regarding John closely. As John opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly rude, Paul brings a hand up, carding through his hair and coming to rest at the nape of his neck. John’s words die in his throat, but his mouth hangs open. Paul watches in amazement as his posture settles, somehow restful even as intrigue sparks in his eyes.

Hand still on John’s neck, Paul leads him into one of the isolation rooms. Designed for recording multiple singers at once, it’s larger than a standard booth but still dark and snug. Paul shuts the door with a click, moves a heavy stool in front of it, and draws the blinds. He turns around to find John exactly where he’d left him, eyes huge with astonishment and anticipation.

“You’ll say ‘Hamburg’ if you need to stop,” Paul says, more calmly than he feels. John licks his lips and nods.

Grabbing an abandoned mic cable from the floor, Paul steps around John and grasps his wrists in one hand. He feels John shiver as he begins to wind the cable carefully around them.

“I understand now,” Paul tells him, “What you need. I _know._ ”

“Oh yeah?” John’s lips twist. “An’ how would ye?”

The scene from John’s music room flashes through Paul’s mind. “I’ve seen what it does to you. It makes sense now. And … because I need it too. I jus’ didn’t realize.” Paul mumbles the last part, half hoping John won’t hear.

Paul looks down at his work, frustrated by the loose, messy knot of cable. John’s hands are tightly clasped together, the bind merely a suggestion. He wishes he were better at this, but his lack of experience has left him terrified of hurting John accidentally. A suggestion will have to do.

“On your knees,” he directs, turning away to scan the room for any other supplies. A stand in the corner catches his eye. Soft rustling sounds come from behind him as John follows the command, but Paul continues across the room. Deft fingers make quick work of the knobs and latches until the stand is roughly the right length, contorted so that nothing sharp or pointy protrudes.

Paul’s smile feels feral on his face as he approaches John again. He kneels, sliding the stand between John’s knees. His thighs spread wider to accommodate the brace, until Paul knows they must be straining with the effort of keeping him upright.

“Think you can take it?” Paul asks, as though only casually curious. “I wonder just how long you can stay like that for me.”

John shoots him a scathing look in return, part dare and part test. Paul’s hand winds into his hair, rougher this time, forcing his head up.

“Answer me,” he says, voice wrapped in steel.

“Yes,” John breathes. “I can take it. For you.”

Paul smiles, petting his hair for a moment before his hand comes to rest on his belt buckle.

“Good. Because I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

With that, Paul hastily unbuckles his belt and slides a hand into his trousers. He strokes himself to full hardness before skimming his hand across John’s cheek.

“There’s a good lad,” he praises as John’s mouth falls dutifully open.

It’s been far too long, he thinks as his cock is engulfed by wet heat. John had always loved sucking cock, and he has the skills to prove it. John’s eyes flutter shut, lashes dusting pink cheeks, as he begins to suck in earnest.

John draws back teasingly, tongue pressing up against the underside of Paul’s cock until only the tip rests on his bottom lip. His eyes crack open, watching Paul as he delicately tongues the head. A cracked moan leaves Paul’s lips as if wrenched from him against his will. John’s lips twist, the attempted smirk obstructed but evident nonetheless.

With a growl, Paul snaps his hips forward, putting an abrupt end to John’s teasing. John splutters and sways, struggling to maintain balance in his precarious position.

“I tried playing nice,” Paul says with a shrug, continuing to pump in and out of John’s mouth. John doesn’t seem to mind, hollowing his lips and relaxing his throat, letting Paul use him as just a hole, a toy. Paul admires the way John’s body rocks with every thrust, submitting to the motion even as his muscles tremble against the momentum.

Taking pity on him, Paul grips the back of John’s head, holding him steady. John moans, a muffled sound that sends electricity shooting through Paul.

“John, I …” Paul’s voice is tight. John hums and tried to nod, but it doesn’t matter. A few more sloppy thrusts and Paul is coming straight down his throat.

Breathing hard, Paul runs a hand through his hair and steps back. He allows himself three deep breaths to collect himself before zipping up his trousers and buckling his belt. When he looks back towards John, his face is once again molded into a mask.

John is beautiful. Long limbs arranged and bound on Paul’s whims, lips wet and swollen. Loose hair trailing past his shoulders, leading Paul’s eyes in the direction of his cock, rock hard and demanding attention. Paul feels drunk looking at him, all of the longing and the love mixing with the high of power and arousal.

Paul kneels down in front of John, petting his face and letting his hands trail down the planes of John’s chest. “Head that good deserves a reward, don’t you think, pet?” Paul asks. John nods his head vigorously, eyes glazed.

Paul reaches down, wrapping his hand around John’s cock. He stills, gazing coolly at John’s face until he looks up in confusion.

“Go on then,” Paul offers, still not moving. John’s thighs flex as he pushes his hips forward and he groans. He picks up his pace, desperately trying to generate more friction against Paul’s fist. He looks in constant danger of over-balancing, but John doesn’t seem concerned.

Without warning, Paul tightens his grip and John shouts. Paul relaxes his hand again, drinking the sight as John fucks himself on his fist.

“God, you look like a fuckin’ animal,” Paul tell him in an awed voice, squeezing his hand tight again, “So desperate. Like a _whore_.” John whimpers at that, his whole body trembling with exertion as he tries to thrust faster. Paul keeps his grip and only a few seconds later, John spills all over his hand.

John’s head drops onto Paul’s shoulder, oblivious as Paul wipes his hand unceremoniously on the carpet. He breathes hard into the space between them, still caught in an orgasmic haze. Paul can’t stop the way his hands reach for John, searching out as much sweat-slicked skin as possible. He kneads the tops of John’s thighs to relieve the leftover tension. John’s skin feels forbidden and like home all at once.

Paul startles a bit when John lifts his head. He’s gripped by momentary fear of what he will see in John’s eyes, of what he might say, when John surprises him by crushing their mouths together. Paul’s hands reach automatically for John’s face, stroking his cheek and pulling him closer. The weight of John leaning against him, knowing that it’s because he’s tied up and off balance, that _Paul_ is the one who tied him up, is unexpectedly hot.

Paul winds a hand into John’s hair and tilts his head to the side. He trails kisses along John’s stubbled jaw until he reaches the long, pale column of his throat. He nips gently at a pulse point, sucking purple-red bruises along the skin, before sucking John’s earlobe into his mouth. John shivers beneath him as Paul drags his teeth along the shell of his ear.

“You like that?” Paul breathes, and feels John nod enthusiastically in response. It’s amazing to see John in such an unfiltered state, honest reactions given freely and immediately. Paul slides his hand down toward John’s chest, stopping when he finds a flushed red nipple. He drags a thumb over it carefully and is rewarded by the shiver that wracks John’s body. Dropping his hands to John’s hips, he leans forward to lave his tongue over the nub, nibbling gently. Paul continues his exploration, dotting open-mouthed kisses across John’s torso.

Paul revels in the sensation of John’s skin, which not long ago he never expected to feel again. It’s too much, really, to expect him to resist tasting any part of him, not when John is tied up and pliant and _willing_. So he reluctantly detaches his mouth from the purple mark he’s left on John’s hip and moves around behind him.

“Lean over for me, will ya, love?” he asks. A steady hand between the shoulder blades guides John’s torso toward the ground. John obediently turns his head so one cheek is pressed into the carpet.

“Gorgeous,” Paul praises, raking his fingernails gently over the expanse of John’s back. His hands come to rest on the curve of John’s ass as he leans in, licking tentatively at his hole.

The sound John makes is otherworldly. Encouraged, Paul sets about wringing more delicious noises from him. Soon, John is wriggling under his hands, pressing back needily against his face. John whines when Paul pulls away but gasps appreciatively as Paul confidently slides two fingers inside him.

Paul feels something calm, focused, settle inside him as he proceeds to methodically take John apart. He catalogues every gasp and whimper, watches for every twitch of John’s straining muscles. He could get used to this, he thinks.

Soon, the quiet of the room is replaced by harsh gasps, and then words. It starts off as a simple “Paul,” then “Please,” and then John is full on babbling. Words stream past his lips, jumbled and nearly incoherent, as he begs for release. But Paul has other ideas.

“Nuh-uh, Johnny. I think you can hold out a bit longer, don’t you? How about until I say?” Paul proposes innocently. John whines, but nods, the carpet scratching across his cheek.

It’s becoming harder for Paul ignore his own arousal as he watches John come undone. When he can’t resist any longer, he retracts his hand, hastily spreading spit over his cock before plunging into John’s waiting hole. Nothing has ever felt this good. Paul would swear on a Bible that no drug on Earth could compare to the feeling of _John_ surrounding him.

John’s begging has been replaced by mindless noises, groans and whimpers tumbling over each other as his clasped hands clench tighter together. It’s obvious that he’s beyond losing it by now. “Paul, please, I need…” he manages to say.

Paul pretends to consider this. “Well, if you really must…” he offers, “But don’t think I’m done with you just yet.”

The words are scarcely out of Paul’s mouth before John is shooting onto the carpet below him. His whole body quakes, seemingly forever. True to his word, Paul doesn’t let up. Instead, he grips John’s hips harder, pulling him backwards to meet every thrust.

Tremors start to wrack John’s oversensitive body, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He mewls helplessly in the knowledge that he brought this on himself. He sighs in relief when Paul slows his pace, but it’s not a respite. Every thrust is slow and torturously deep, intentionally brushing his prostate every time. This is Paul at his most controlled, his most cruel. He’s brilliant at it.

Tears form in John’s eyes as his body begins to respond despite itself. The edges of the world go blurry as his senses are overwhelmed by pleasure-pain and he relaxes into it as best he can. Paul picks up speed, and John hears a long moan fall from his own lips. Every nerve ending feels like it’s been electrocuted, and yet he can feel his cock bobbing up against his belly again already.

Paul’s hips are driving into him now, harsh slapping sounds filling the air. He drags his nails down John’s back, hard, and his next thrust nails John’s prostate. Without warning, John screams as another orgasm is wrenched from his body. He spasms uncontrollably, and it’s enough for Paul to come too, biting out a “Christ, John,” as he coats John’s insides.

Paul pulls out, cleans himself off, straightens his clothing. It’s then that he realizes John hasn’t moved from his position. He looks absolutely wrecked, tied up and bent over and shaking, come splattering his chest and the carpet beneath him. And that’s when Paul panics.

“Oh my god, are you okay? What have I done? Did I go too far? I went too far. Jesus Christ,” he rambles as he rushes to pick John up off the floor. His hands have gone numb, and he fumbles with the mic cable before successfully freeing John’s hands. John’s eyes are unfocused as Paul manhandles him into his lap. Paul holds John tight to his chest, petting his hair, and John’s arms reach out to twine around his neck.

John still hasn’t said anything. He clings to Paul like a child, and Paul clings right back. John must be able to feel the racing of Paul’s pulse, but he simply closes his eyes and lays his head against Paul’s chest. It would be almost peaceful, if Paul weren’t currently engaged in a full-on mental crisis.

Eventually John lifts his head, eyes searching out Paul’s. “Thank you,” he says simply.

“What?” Paul asks, incredulous. “I thought I broke you! What was I _thinking_?”

“I knew you had it in you,” John jests gently. “Been trying to get you to do that for ages.”

“Are you … sure?” Paul’s brain is having trouble catching up to this turn of events. “I didn’t go too far?”

“I think I can handle anything you could dish out,” John answers, but the false bravado doesn’t quite land. “No,” he answers more quietly, “It was perfect. Can’t do that with someone you don’t trust, an’ I trust you.”

“Can I…” Paul trails off. It’s strange, to feel shy after what they’ve just done. “Can I kiss you?” he asks tentatively.

John doesn’t answer, just crushes their mouths together like he’s making up for lost time. It’s not the same as it was when they were kids: John’s jaw is sharper beneath Paul’s hand, and the press of Paul’s tongue is far more confident than it was before. It’s not the same, but it’s real, here, now, and Paul thinks that might be better.


End file.
